“And—what is that?”
“Well, I have given him the rhododendrons on the roadside and along the drives to peg down. It must be done, and now is the time. Surely he can do that. Fifteen shillings a week; and Sela picks up something.”
“I hear he has had notice to leave his cottage.”
“Yes—it is not mine, and—well, my agent has been peremptory with me. He says, ‘Give him work if you will, but I forewarn you it is throwing good money away; but do not get him rooted in the parish, or you will never be rid of him.’”
“Well,” said the rector, “he is not one of my sheep. He is in another parish, but Sela was—and why she married him——”
“Just what I say. But I say, I say—she was a poor girl, an orphan, and, I suppose, thought the man must find work, and would labour to maintain her.”
“And now she has to maintain him. Whatever can be the meaning of heaven in sending such men into the world?”
It was the rector who said that, and next moment he reproached himself for having said it.
Timothy—Slouch was not his surname, it was Luppencott, but every one called him Slouch, as expressive of the man, his walk and way, not only on the road and at his work, but throughout life’s course—Timothy had been brought up as a blacksmith, but had never advanced beyond blowing the bellows and hammering. He could do both, but not make a screw or bend a bar into a crook. All his experience had had no other effect than to convince his masters of his incapacity.